


showed me the statues underground

by stilesinwonderland (itsabravenewworld)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Artist Stiles Stilinski, Grandmothers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3978979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsabravenewworld/pseuds/stilesinwonderland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re not Margaret,” he states, still frozen a few feet from the counter because god, he’s thrown by the guy, with dark features and protruding cheekbones and a sharp jaw.</p><p>or where Stiles is an artist and Derek's grandma owns an art shop that he shops at</p>
            </blockquote>





	showed me the statues underground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thepsychicclam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepsychicclam/gifts).



> Enjoy!! Please come visit on my tumblr :)

Stiles runs out of paint halfway through one canvas, and almost all of it is littering his clothes in splatters. He feels sweaty, sore, and worn out. Runs a hand through his hair, looking the piece over and trying to squeeze the last drops of paint that he can. He doesn’t want to leave his piece behind because he may lose inspiration after nearly two hours of bending over it then abandoning it, but he knows that he can’t use any other shade of red than the one he’s just run out of; it wouldn’t work with a scarlet, even though that tube is nearly full.

 

He sets his brush down into the heavily stained easel where it’s set on a towel. Hefting himself up off the wooden attic stairs, he wipes his fingers against his work jeans (they _had_ been a pair of his favorite skinny jeans until there was a mishap with blue chalk getting wet) with the pockets full of change and his to-go tubes of paint and finally opens his windows to air the space out.

 

Counting his money out, he climbs down the rickety steps to the ground level in his bare feet, noticing the hint of color still staining his big toe, and he kind of wants to shower before going out, but his mind is still engrossed in “finish the painting, finish the painting,” that he decides looking zombie-like will have to do. It’s been a while since he’s resurfaced, so his father gives him a shocked look, but looks happy to see him anyways. Stiles smiles back and pats him on the shoulder before padding out the door.

 

His Jeep doesn’t purr anymore when he turns the engine over; she grunts from disuse the last couple of weeks, and Stiles clicks his tongue in sympathy, running a thumb over the dash.

 

“Easel Goes It” is the farthest place away from Stiles’s house, but Stiles still turns onto the highway and takes the extra ten minutes, parking right in front of the tiny shop. The place is Stiles’s favorite because, besides being the cheapest for his oil paint, the woman that owns and runs it is the kindest lady he’s ever met. Margaret had to be over seventy by now, and had been in Beacon Hills for as long as Stiles has been alive, and longer before that.

 

The lack of music in the place is the first thing Stiles notices. Margaret’s cash register is in the back of the store (he thinks it’s a sales thing, so people have to pass all of the other items and be convinced to buy more, but Margaret always smacks him over the head and tells him that a little walking never hurt anyone)  and calls her name out. The paint that he needs almost has no containers left when he gets to them, and he grabs the last three, heading to the back of the store to pay.

 

“Hey Margaret, I noticed you’re almost out of the carmine paint. I mean, these three should be great and should be just enough, but Walter is probably going to come in any day now and nearly buy out your stock, again, so there’s--” He halts when he turns around the corner and there’s someone staring at him from the counter. And it’s definitely not Margaret.

 

“You’re not Margaret,” he states, still frozen a few feet from the counter because _god,_ he’s thrown by the guy, with dark features and protruding cheekbones and a sharp jaw. The guy looks like he was possibly leaning over with his head down because his arms are crossed, biceps bulging past his shirt sleeves and his head is still bowed down just a little bit.

 

“No,” the guy replies, voice softer than Stiles had been imagining. The guy doesn’t give off the soft vibe at all, all razor-edges and deep-set eyebrows. He’s wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans like Stiles is, and Stiles suddenly feels self-conscious at being covered completely in paint, everywhere. As if reading his thoughts, the guy takes in his appearance, eyes panning up and down, with a twitch of his eyebrow.

 

“Margaret is always here,” Stiles states dumbly. He shuffles on his feet and looks around the counter area, expecting to see the little woman sitting there working on her account books. “Where is she?”

 

“In the hospital,” the guy tells him slowly. “She has a heart condition and they insisted on keeping her in for extra testing.” Stiles feels his stomach sink, and he steps closer just to set the paint tubes down. He runs a hand through his hair and frowns.

 

“Who’re you then?” he eventually asks the guy. “I doubt you’re actually an employee here, because Margaret never would have hired someone else. She’s kind of wary about that; doesn’t trust people around her things.”

 

He looks at Stiles oddly, and sits up straighter in his tall spinning chair. “I’m Derek. Her grandson.” Slowly, the guy grabs his paint tubes to ring them up, keeping eye contact the whole time. “She trusts me more than most with her things.” His eyes are probably the warmest thing about him, where they fade into hazel-brown on the outside and aren’t piercing enough to really be intimidating. Stiles smiles because he hadn’t been told about a grandson.

 

“I’m Stiles,” he says. “I’m kind of a regular customer here, so I was just expecting your grandmother is all. She’s usually always here.”

 

Derek’s face twists into a grimace as soon as he introduces himself. “You’re Stiles,” he says, jerking his head down.

 

“Uh,” Stiles says, and leans one arm on the counter. He waves a hand. “Well yeah? In the flesh. Is it the name that’s got you giving me a weird look? People usually ask about it but it’s not really my name, more of a nickname--”

 

Derek seems to break out of his sour state by blinking, and interrupts Stiles, saying “No, no. It’s just. My grandmother has told me a lot about you.”

 

“Has she, now?” Stiles can’t help but grinning at the thought. He hands over a ten dollar bill when Derek asks for it, wincing at the paint littering his fingers, too. Derek doesn’t seem to notice, though, and keeps his head down while he puts the money into the ancient register. Derek quickly counts out change for him and his hands are kind of something, too. Strong looking. “Good things, I hope,”  he adds, swallowing.

 

“Not quite,” Derek says, not keeping eye contact, and taking extra care in bagging Stiles’s things.

 

“Bull,” Stiles says with a smile, trying to chip off some of the dried paint with his thumb and looking up at Derek. Derek is frozen where he’s sitting, staring at him. “She loves me,” Stiles reiterates, hands twitching where they’re clasped on the desk.

 

Derek doesn’t respond, but hands him his bag and a receipt, still eyeing him like he’s a strange occurrence. When Derek says, “Have a nice day, Stiles,” he takes it as his cue to leave, so he gives a little wave and heads back towards the front of the store.

 

“Oh wait!” Stiles twists around and looks at Derek, who is rubbing his face tiredly.

 

Derek drops his hand quickly, glares at him. “Yes?”

 

“Tell Margaret to get better. I’m working on something I need to show her, pronto.”

 

The lines in Derek’s face lessen and he sort-of smiles at him. Well, he isn’t openly frowning, is all it is, but Stiles takes what he can get. “I will,” he says.

 

“Good. Bye!”

 

-

 

“Heya Derek.”

 

Derek’s head snaps up when Stiles throws a large canvas onto the counter to buy. It rattles loudly, and Derek glares at it and then at him. It’s impressive how much emotion he conveys while also managing to just seem bored. “Stiles. That’ll be $18.54.”

 

“Sure,” Stiles says, hastily digging through his pockets to get the exact change. “How’s my favorite girl doing?”

 

“They’re keeping her to test her heart activity. She said to visit her whenever you want, even though she’s probably going to be sleeping.” Derek looks slightly less than pleased to relay this information to Stiles, but his expression hasn’t changed much at all since their first meeting.

 

“I’ll have to do that, then.” Derek nods like he could care less. “So why is it that you always look so angry to be here?” Stiles blurts out

 

Derek doesn’t answer him and stares resiliently at the register with an eventual smirk. “I don’t know why you assume I don’t smile when you’re not here,” he says, glancing up. His eyes are really green. Stiles hasn’t seen a paint color that would match them perfectly.

 

“Ha-ha,” Stiles says with a wave of his hand. Even if he hadn’t heard the teasing lilt in Derek’s words, it would have been easy to assume that Derek doesn’t mind his company. He’s been around nearly every day for the past week, to grab random cheap items that he doesn’t really need as Derek eyes him from behind the counter. Stiles tells himself it’s because he’s there to check on Margaret, which is only half of the truth. But the other half is tall, broody, and handsome. Stiles thinks paintings wouldn’t even do the dude justice.

 

“I was going to show her some of my paintings I did for city hall, but I might subject you to it instead.” Derek’s whole expression wrinkles up. “I’m just kidding, dude, I don’t let anyone see my sketches. Totally embarrassing.”

 

He picks at the edge of the canvas, and it’s just helpless stalling at this point. “I bet you don’t appreciate art as much as your grandma.” Stiles asks, and he’s half joking. But Derek kind of shrugs disinterestedly, and Stiles’s mouth hangs open. “Do you not like art? How could you not like art?”

 

“I never said I didn’t like _all_ art,” Derek snaps, but it’s lacking any real heat in it. “I just don’t like modern art.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles chuckles. Not that he isn’t a modern artist, but he doesn’t feel like picking that fight. He thinks about his disastrous middle school art trip to the MoMA in New York; the others wouldn’t stop giggling at the bare bodies. “I get you. Penises aren’t your thing, then.”

 

His eyes go wide when Derek freezes and he feels his face heating up. “Not necessarily,” Derek tells him after a moment of awkward silence.

 

Trying to swallow the lump in his throat, Stiles backs up from the counter. He lets out a quiet laugh and feels like dying when Derek closes his mouth and looks at the computer. “Cool, thanks then. I’m gonna--”

 

“Goodbye, Stiles,” Derek says, still staring at the cash register.

 

\--

 

Stiles lugs his canvas into the hospital and signs in at the check-in desk. The bored-looking lady’s expression changes into confusion as he thanks her and drags the painting past her, but then she shrugs and continues to type, and Stiles pushes back the curtain to the generously sized hospital room.

 

Stiles frowns slightly at the sight of Margaret in her bed, tiny legs above the blanket and an IV in her arm, and when she looks at him, he gives her a wry smile. “Hey hot stuff,” he says, sliding the glass door closed.

 

“Stiles,” she rasps, but her voice doesn’t give any implication of her being in pain. “They never give me enough to drink here,” she complains suddenly, rubbing at her wrinkley throat. She turns to the side, and looks to the corner of the room. Derek is sitting there, one elbow resting on his arm as he leans over towards her. Stiles wonders who’s running the store if he’s here, but he’s also glad to see that Margaret has someone to spend time with her. She gets antsy when she’s alone.

 

“Derek, sweetheart, go and buy me a water bottle from the machine outside.” She jerks her head, and Stiles steps to the side as Derek sighs and opens the door, steps through. He smells like cologne, musky, and Stiles feels like if he were a painting, he’d be shades of green. The door is loud when it closes, and he looks back to Margaret.

 

“I figured you were working on something, and that’s why you haven’t come to visit me.” Margaret’s voice is accusing, and Stiles grins bashfully.

 

He lifts the canvas. “I have a bribe to make up for it!”

 

Her eyes twinkle. “Good.” She lifts a shaky hand and grabs for it. She looks sort of sick, tinny and white hair tied back into a ponytail and her eyes sunken in. Stiles hands the canvas over and unwraps it for her.

 

“It’s for city hall.” He scratches at his neck when the skin there prickles with nerves. “They’re paying me enough to buy more supplies for at least a month.” It’s usual for him to be nervous for her to see his work, but she grins with one corner of her mouth twitching up sadly.

 

“It’s beautiful. Your paintings don’t usually show darkness as much as this one does.”

 

Stiles looks down at the painting with her. “Yeah. I was trying to change it up.” He doesn’t have a specific theme throughout all of his art, but he enjoys painting light, and how it reflects objects. This one is a portrait of houses in the downtown area. The sun is in the painting, blended in with the sky, creating no sharp edges. Shadows play beyond the buildings, shapes of dogs and humans that take on a ghost-like appearance.

 

Margaret’s veined hand traces over the shape of a man with his head bent down, a brimmed hat over his face and the only visible facet of his face is his jaw protruding just to the left. She smiles, and Stiles pointedly looks away. “Well I think they’ll offer you a good amount for this one. If not, I’ll let them know what they can do with their bad deals.”

 

Stiles nods. “How’ve you been?”

Margaret scoffs, eyes rolling. “Mister Stilinski, I don’t need you worrying about me. I’m _fine.”_

 

“Your heart rate has been too low for you to go home,” someone suddenly says. “Fine isn’t the word I would use.” The door slides open and Derek steps into the room with two water bottles in his hands. He doesn’t look happy, which is kind of understandable, but still.

 

“Oh Derek,” Margaret replies. “It was a _minor_ heart attack. People lost limbs in the war in my time.” Her voice is laced with the same amount of fondness that Stiles hears every time they talk. He remembers running in the store and knocking over containers of paint that would break open, and her frowning down at him.

 

Derek doesn’t seem like a family man, but the concern is clear in his expression. Or in his eyebrows. Whatever.

 

He looks at Stiles pointedly, and Stiles hops up immediately, shouldering his bag. “Oh, yeah, here’s your uh--” Derek’s eyebrow goes up, “your seat.” Margaret sighs behind his shoulder.

 

“Tone down the sour face, Derek.”

 

Derek blinks and looks at Margaret. Then he looks back at Stiles, his expression still a little grim. “You can sit,” Derek says, something in his voice that’s different than usual-- a little tired, softened. Maybe it’s admonished. Stiles shakes his head frantically at the offer, beginning to cover his artwork that Margaret hands him with a smile.

 

“That’s fine, I should give this and get paid, you know?” He gives Margaret a smirk and shirks back Derek through the open door, then sticks his head back in. “I’ll be back later.”

 

She points at him with a shaking finger. “I’m counting on it!”

 

Stiles grins again in fondness and then looks at Derek. “I’ll see you around?”

 

Derek, with his knuckles twisting as he opens a water bottle, says “Yeah,” and Stiles nods before pushing the curtain closed.

 

\--

 

“All this,” Stiles mutters as he tosses his basket onto the counter. Derek glares up at him from his book (and his glasses are perched on his nose just so Stiles wants to push them up) then sets it down.

 

He rings up the sketchbook and looks up at him. “I didn’t know you sketched.”

Stiles’s mouth twitches at his interest. “Yeah, I was thinking of doing charcoal art.” He swallows. “I usually never do it, but I used to sketch as a kid.” His hand is currently covered in pencil lead remains from his last drawing, one of a shadowed face stuck in his head. “Your grandma gave me my first sketchbook, did you know that?”

 

Derek shakes his head.

 

Stiles nods and picks at the container of new acrylic paint. “Yeah, she did. My dad was buying some wood for a shelf next door, and I was causing trouble and ran in here. She gave me it for free even when my dad came in and said he’d pay for it. I stopped after my mom died, but Margaret still has my first sketch I ever did.”

 

Derek’s eyes are fixed on his, and he coughs once, awkwardly. “How did she die?”

 

Stiles swallows and it hurts, burns. “She drowned.”

 

Derek looks down and then back up. “Margaret’s at home now, they released her yesterday,”  Derek tells him, handing Stiles his change.

 

“That’s awesome,” Stiles says, glad that Derek isn’t hung up on what he’s said. “Knowing her, she’ll be back within the week.”

 

Derek scowls when he says “Probably.”

 

“Not that I wouldn’t crave your monosyllabic presence or anything.” Stiles chuckles to himself when Derek glares at him some more. “If she needs anything, tell her to let me know,” Stiles tells him.

 

“I will.” Stiles stands there for a moment after Derek picks up his book again, until Derek’s eyes pan back up. “Yes?”

 

Stiles feels his neck heat up. “Oh, I was just wondering,” he sets the bag back down, “What do you do? Besides running the store, I mean, cause I know that’s not your job.”

 

As he sets his book down, Derek leans in. “I was a cop, in New York.”

 

Stiles flails his hands. “New _York?”_ He can’t help but think of how he came all this way to take care of his grandma. It pulls at something in his chest.

 

“Yes,” Derek rolls his eyes. “I was thinking of moving back here, though.” His eyes flicker up and bore into Stiles’s.

 

“My dad’s the sheriff,” Stiles tells him, then wants to hit his face against the nearest door. “I mean, I could see about getting you a job--” he cuts himself off. “Or something.”

 

Derek’s silent for a second. “Thank you.”

 

“No problem,” Stiles smiles. He tries to pick up his bags but with only two hands he fails at it, until Derek sighs and helps him to his car with two in his own hands.

 

“I have a question,” Derek says, as he shuts Stiles’s trunk for him, and Stiles stops walking towards the front to look back.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“When is your favorite time to paint?” Derek asks, and even as Stiles cracks a sarcastic smile, his expression remains serious.

 

“Oh,” Stiles picks at the dry skin of his thumb. “You’re not making fun of me.”

 

“Why would I do that?” The way Derek’s watching him, Stiles does feel a little ridiculous for assuming. He pauses, his train of thought fading away from him.

 

“Early morning is the best time, when the sun is coming out,” Stiles begins. “It shows all the light coming through the blinds and how it plays against objects the best.”

 

Derek nods, and then just walks away. Stiles gets in his car after a few moments, wondering what had just happened.

 

\--

 

He can see the muddled shapes of shadow painted, blurred into the varying shades of the painting. Margaret tells him that it’s completely different from anything he’s ever done before.  She’s right of course. He usually doesn’t paint in blue, but that’s all this one is.

 

It’s water, deep in the ocean, where the sun doesn’t quite get to. There’s a splash of red, a woman in the water floating through, body curved slightly and hands outstretched.

 

This one had taken years to work on.

 

His dad hangs it up in his office over his third grade art painting (he thinks it’s a successful progression) and hugs Stiles tight.

 

\--

 

Stiles carries his bucket full of paint supplies to fix up the mural on the side of the police station. His dad had suggested it a few years ago as part of Stiles’s final project, and it was funded by the city to support anti-violence.

 

Young kids have painted over some of the people on the wall with messages and other random graffiti. Stiles appreciates them adding to it, adding their own artistic additions, but his dad doesn’t appreciate penises being drawn on his building, so Stiles spends time fixing it on weekends. It’s a sort-of constant work of art, as Stiles adds more on, it becomes more colorful. He enjoys having to change it, because it reflects who he is in the moment.

 

Stiles is covering the brick with plaster to even out the surface when someone coughs and catches his attention. He wipes at his forehead and is almost certain that he smears yellow and blue paint along his skin in the process before turning.

 

It’s Derek, standing just a few feet behind him (and it’s not fair that Stiles is covered in paint and wearing tattered jeans when Derek finds him most), hands in his pockets. “Oh, hey.”

 

“Hey,” Derek greets back. The sun is shining over his head, putting his face into the shadows and he steps forward once. Stiles drops his giant paintbrush (only to be used for buildings) and stands up.

 

“Are you here for a job?” Stiles asks, wondering if it’s obvious that Stiles wants him to stay. “I can go in with you, as a reference.”

 

“No,” Derek answers. “Actually. I saw your painting you did, the one you showed my grandma.”

 

“Oh,” Stiles’s hand twitches behind his back. He rubs at his neck.

 

“It was really good, you know.” Derek advances slowly, and Stiles, though there’s expanses of wall behind him that he could run along to escape, feels trapped in. It must be Derek’s gaze, tracking over to his painting.

 

“You don’t like art,” Stiles defends. “Modern art. I’m a modern painter, which means I didn’t live in the Baroque period since that seems to be a problem for you.”

 

Derek nods slowly, looking up at his mural. A car passes by. “There was this kid my grandma would always tell me about,” Derek begins. “She wanted me to date him.”

 

Stiles looks at him, confused.

 

Derek’s mouth twitches up. “He talked a lot, you see. He cared too much. _Really_ passionate about art, and really good at it.” Derek steps forward once more, crossing his arms.

 

“Derek--”

 

“Tell me if it’s okay,” Derek requests. He’s close enough, backs Stiles into the wall, and then kisses him.

 

Stiles gasps against his mouth, because good, _good,_ lights flash behind his eyelids mimicking paintings that just don’t exist yet. He bites Derek’s lip gently, and there has to be paint on his back, but hopefully it’s not too smeared because Derek’s hand leans over his head to press against the wall so he can lean in harder.

 

It’s way easier to drag him in by his t-shirt than it should ever be and he tilts his head to the side to get closer. The rasp of his beard is awesome, burns in a good way.

 

“Should I be worried?” Stiles says, mouth still loosely moving against Derek’s.

 

Derek pulls away, lips red and inflamed. Stiles goes a little cross-eyed trying to keep track of them. “About what,” Derek asks, and those lips twitch at the corners.

 

Stiles pulls him closer, because how could he have known that Derek could be this _soft,_ and quiet-- and not in a judgemental way, but like he’s satisfied. Stiles knows exactly how he feels. “There’s obviously some artist out there you should be looking for instead of making out with me--”

 

Derek’s mouth twitches up halfway through Stiles’s sentence and he silences Stiles with a press of his mouth.

\--

 

When Margaret returns, Stiles brings her a new painting to hang in the shop of a heart surrounded by varying colors. It brings a smile to both her and Derek’s faces, but his fades when she makes him hang it up.

 

Stiles also has lemonade so he sits on her counter like he had when he was younger, sipping from a plastic cup as Derek nudges at him to get off. “Nuh uh,” Stiles complains, “Drink your lemonade you grump. It’s like consuming sunshine.” Derek humphs but he does take a sip and looks moderately less grumpy afterwards.

 

Margaret nudges Derek and points to Stiles, who is lounging with his head tilted back; Derek had been watching him distractedly because of his neck on display. “He’s the one, you know.”

 

“Yeah, Derek,” Stiles nods happily, nudging Derek with his toe, and Derek grabs onto his foot, stepping closer, dragging the hand to Stiles’s side. “Why don’t you ask me out then?”

 

Derek grins, teeth just showing beyond his lips. “Go out with me,” he asks as Margaret squeals in the corner and Stiles nods with a loud laugh, the sun shining through his lids, thinking about how this could be the perfect painting.

 


End file.
